


Lover in My Bed, Gun to My Head

by lo_lolita



Category: Buzzfeed Unsolved (Web Series)
Genre: Barebacking, Blackmail, Daddy Kink, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Future Serial Killer Ricky Goldsworth, Implied/Referenced Animal Mutilation, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Ricky is 14, Stalking, Stockholm Syndrome, Tinsley is in his 30s, Underage Aggressor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-03
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25678579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lo_lolita/pseuds/lo_lolita
Summary: "How did you know — everything? My favorite color, the book I've been reading, my collection... Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the gift, but—"Ricky clicks his tongue impatiently. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, Cecil," he says, rolling his eyes. "You're smarter than that, and so am I."
Relationships: Ricky Goldsworth/C. C. Tinsley
Comments: 3
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags. If you're a minor, go away. Keep fiction separate from reality and stay safe.
> 
> Thanks to my [beta](https://twitter.com/wincets) and to everyone else who's encouraged or helped me out while writing this!
> 
> Title comes from Ava Adore by The Smashing Pumpkins. You can find it here on [my fic playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0GDeEUBKT7rn5TQ3mpMXoN?si=7kUceZoaQ5Wf7pYRl9onZg), along with an absolutely absurd number of other songs.

"Are you gonna tell me your name?"

"I already told you," Ricky pouts, crossing his arms. He's lucky the cop hasn't cuffed him, he supposes. He might have, if he'd found Ricky doing something worse than stealing $20 worth of groceries from the Speedway on the corner. "It's Ricky."

The cop ─ tall, skinny, pale, with a weird but rather handsome face ─ rolls his eyes. "And I told _you_ , I need a last name, Ricky."

Ricky takes a step closer, and the cop eyes him warily. He smiles prettily, disarming, and relishes in the way it makes the cop relax a little, if only subconsciously. "Well, since you asked so nicely," he says sweetly, "It's Ramirez."

This makes the cop scoff, though, taking half a step back. "Your name is Ricky Ramirez," he repeats flatly, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of his lips. "Try again, Night Stalker."

Ricky can't help it; his pout turns into something of a smirk instead, and he looks away from the cop for a moment, shrugging his thin shoulders. "Goldsworth," he admits finally, sighing. "Ricardo Goldsworth. It was my stepdad's last name."

The cop jots something down in his stupid little notepad, glancing up at Ricky with a raised eyebrow. "Was?" he repeats.

Ricky scoffs, gaze flickering down to the cop's badge. "I don't know where that piece of shit is now, _Officer_ Tinsley," he lies, "And I don't care. Don't know where my whore momma is, either." That much is true, anyway. Ricky may have spared Lucy out of something like pity, but Michael Goldsworth is rotting in a thousand pieces at the bottom of the Hudson now, has been there for the better part of a year.

Tinsley frowns at that and abruptly closes the notepad. He tucks it into his front shirt pocket, then crosses his arms. "You in foster care?" he asks carefully.

"Sure," Ricky snorts, examining his nails. Tinsley's gaze follows Ricky's; Ricky wonders if he's surprised at how clean and well-kempt they are. Most people are. "Look, I have somewhere to go, alright? I've never been arrested before, so can you just─" Ricky bites his lip, looks up at Tinsley through his lashes. Turns on the waterworks like a goddamn pro, lets his big ol' doe eyes get all glossy and wet, a trick he learned to perfect as a child when his mother called him _unnatural_ for not crying when his dog died. (It had been an accident that first time. The subsequent dead pets, well. Not so much.)

Tinsley glances away, seeming abruptly uncomfortable and something else Ricky can't quite name, in equal parts. Ricky studies the man's profile as he turns to look in the front window of the gas station, where the manager appears to be watching them closely. He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. "Get in. I'll see what I can do," Tinsley says gruffly, and Ricky sniffs, gives him a watery little smile as he slides into the back of the patrol car like a good girl when Tinsley opens the door.

Ricky watches intently through the window as Tinsley goes back inside, watches him chat with the manager, watches him take his own wallet out of his pocket and slide a few bills across the counter. Ricky pretends to look out the other window when Tinsley finally comes back a few minutes later with a couple of plastic grocery bags, just barely keeping the smirk off his face. He manages to look curious instead, a little nervous. Tinsley slides into the front seat, half-turning to face Ricky.

"They won't press charges," Tinsley says. "I ─ well. I bought what you tried to take, and a few other things." He clears his throat. There's a pretty pink flush spreading across the bridge of his nose, rising high in his cheeks. Ricky wants to bite it.

"Why?" he manages after a moment. Wary, genuinely so, because in his experience, grown men don't help out a pretty little twink like him solely out of the goodness of their hearts. He smirks, sudden and sharp. "You gonna pull into a dark alley and ask me to suck your dick, _Officer_ Tinsley?"

Tinsley blinks, the color of that flush turning a much deeper color. He gapes like a fish, and Ricky raises an eyebrow at him, waiting patiently. "Well? Or maybe you weren't gonna ask. Maybe you were gonna _make_ ─"

"No!" Tinsley interrupts. "No, Jesus H. Christ, _no._ I wouldn't ─ I'd never─ Jesus, kid." He takes off his hat, runs a hand through his messy brown hair.

Ricky shrugs and leans back in his seat, crossing his arms. "You wouldn't be the first, baby, and you sure wouldn't be the last."

Tinsley mouths the word ─ _baby_ ─ and shakes his head vigorously. "No," he insists, firmly. "I just ─ I've been there, alright?" At Ricky's disbelieving scoff, he continues, insistent: "I have. I ran away when I was about your age. You're, what, fifteen?"

"Fourteen," Ricky corrects reluctantly, and Tinsley nods.

"Fourteen. Well, my mom died when I was twelve. After that, my dad was..." Tinsley trails off, and Ricky can fill in the blanks. Takes one fucked-up victim ─ or do they call them _survivors_ now? He thinks that's what his last case manager said, at least a few minutes before he had his dick in Ricky's mouth ─ to know one, after all. Tinsley continues, "... And I was in foster care for a few months before I ran away. I just... I got lucky, y'know? Went into the military when I turned eighteen, made something of my life. I want something like that for you, too. For everyone who grows up like that, really." Tinsley shrugs a little helplessly, and it's so painfully earnest that Ricky almost believes him. Oh, he's sure Tinsley means it, sure he's convinced _himself_ that's all this is; but he's also pretty sure he knows what that strange look on Tinsley's face had been when Ricky had let himself get all teary-eyed and vulnerable a few minutes ago.

"... Uh huh. You're not gonna drag me back to CPS?" Ricky asks, squinting warily at Tinsley. The way he sees it, there are two kinds of adults that are nice to him: the ones that want to fuck him, and the ones that want to shove him back into the government's oh-so-welcoming open arms.

"No," Tinsley says, and he looks a little sad. "I know what happens to kids in the system, Ricky. I told you, I was in it, too. I'll just take you back to wherever it is that you're staying."

Ricky's eyebrows shoot up in genuine surprise, then. He leans forward and stares at Tinsley through the cage of the patrol car. "... You're lying," he accuses, drawing his limbs in closer to his body. "You're either lying about taking me to CPS, or lying about wanting to fuck me. I don't know. But you're lying."

Tinsley sighs. "I don't want to ─ I'm not like that, kid. Just." He shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair again. He has nice hands, Ricky thinks. Maybe he wouldn't mind having those long fingers inside him, after all. "Tell me where you're staying."

Ricky continues to stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. Neither of them speaks. Ricky's the one to break the eye contact in the end.

He tells him.

─

Ricky Goldsworth is goddamn smart, but he's not particularly book-smart. He knows there's something wrong with him, something rotten deep down inside that he can never, ever fix; he doesn't know the name for it, doesn't know if he's a psychopath or a sociopath or what the difference even is, but he knows that normal boys don't kill animals just because they like to hear the noises they make when they die. They don't kill their stepdads, regardless of whether or not said stepdad bad-touched them. They don't fantasize about killing other people for no reason at all. They don't fantasize about fucking and marrying and spending the rest of their life with a grown man, a police officer, just because he treated them with basic human decency one time.

Ricky learns Officer Tinsley's favorite colors by watching him closely for over two weeks. He counts how many times he sees Officer Tinsley wear each color outside of work, just like he counts how often Officer Tinsley stops to pet a dog versus how often he stops to pet a cat, or how often he gets McDonald's for breakfast instead of Burger King. Ricky learns how Officer Tinsley takes his coffee, what brand of whiskey he favors, what bodega he buys his groceries at ─ all without ever speaking to him again.

─

Ricky plans to show his appreciation for Officer Tinsley's kindness with a gift.

He has a well-preserved, clean cat skull in his room at the sleazy, pay-by-the-week Motel Six he's been living at for the past few months. The teeth are all present and healthy, and there aren't any unsightly cracks or chips in the bone. He's going to paint it beautifully, he thinks, all yellows and ceruleans ─ Officer Tinsley's favorite colors ─ and maybe Officer Tinsley will see it for what it is. The first step in what is certain, Ricky thinks, absolutely _certain_ to be the romance of the century. If they're truly alike in the way Tinsley said they were, he'll understand. He'll love it.

If he doesn't, well... Ricky hasn't actually planned that far ahead yet, but he can't imagine his reaction will be very pretty.

─

Tinsley arrives at work one cool September morning to find a neatly-wrapped box sitting atop his desk. The wrapping paper is bright blue, and there's a yellow bow on top. They're two of his favorite colors, he thinks, though he can't think of anyone who'd know that. Wary, he steps closer and looks for any kind of card or label. His birthday was back in July, and Christmas is still months off; he's not particularly close to any of his coworkers, either ─ in fact, he's pretty sure most of them outright dislike him ─ so he really has no clue where it could have come from.

Tinsley wanders over to the front desk and raps on the surface of it once, flashing the receptionist a polite, charming smile. He hasn't slept with this one yet, has he? ─ Apparently not, he thinks, because she smiles back, indeed looking quite charmed.

"Hi," he says. "I'm Tinsley. There was a box on my desk..?"

"Oh!" the receptionist ─ Maria, according to her nametag ─ nods and glances back the way Tinsley just came. "The sweetest kid brought it in. He said it was for you. Um... Teenager, pretty eyes, real polite? He didn't look like a street kid, dressed too nice, but he kinda talked like one?" She taps her lower lip in thought when that doesn't seem to ring any bells for Tinsley. "He was Mexican, I think. He talked to me in Spanish. And maybe some kind of Asian?" She shrugs. "He didn't give me a name, sorry."

Tinsley shakes his head a little, puzzle pieces falling into place now. "No, it's fine. I think I know who it was. Huh." He smiles again and ignores her quizzical look. "Thanks, Maria."

"Anytime, Officer," Maria replies, and Tinsley heads back to his desk before she can flirt with him.

Tinsley stares warily at the box for several long seconds. Are the colors just a coincidence? They must be, he decides; he'd spent less than an hour in Ricky Goldsworth's presence, after all. And of course it would be easy to find which precinct Tinsley works at. It's mostly just that Ricky didn't seem like the gifts-of-gratitude type when they'd met, and honestly seemed rather unstable. Tinsley can't come up with a single thing to guess might be in the box.

Eventually, he sighs and grabs the letter opener from his desk, slicing through the papery-plastic ribbon. He takes a deep breath, then lifts the lid of the top and reluctantly peers inside.

Inside there's a lot of tissue paper, and a yellow envelope nestled atop it. Tinsley wonders where Ricky learned to write in such an impressive, spidery cursive. Wonders even more where he learned C.C.'s full name.

Inside the envelope is a card that looks older than Tinsley himself. The paper is heavy, cream-colored, and the design on the front is a rather spectacular watercolor of a sunflower field. Tinsley smiles at it for a moment, wonders where Ricky stole it from, then flips it open. Inside, it reads,

_tell me we're dead  
and i'll love you even more_

_-—- R_

... And nothing else.

Tinsley stares at the card for several long moments. Then he turns in his chair, reaches into his satchel, and retrieves the worn copy of Richard Siken's _Crush_ he's been skimming through for the past week or so. He'd picked it up on a whim at the book shop down the road from his apartment; there's no way for Ricky to know he's been reading it. Not unless...

Tinsley exhales slowly and drags his hand over his face. Then he sets aside the card and lifts the tissue paper.

Tinsley lets out a breath of relief when he sees what's inside, because while it's definitely not what one would call a _normal_ gift, at least it's not something gross. If he had to guess, he'd assume it's the skull of an average housecat. It's fully intact and hand-painted, sky blue with a sunflower around each eye socket. It's... Beautiful, honestly, and Tinsley catches himself already imaging it on the shelf with the rest of his oddities before his mind catches up to the rest of him. A chill goes down his spine.

There's... No way Ricky knew Tinsley would love something like this, right? Nobody knows about the small collection of bones and preserved insects in Tinsley's apartment except people who've been _in_ his apartment. He lives on the fifth floor; the shelf they're on isn't even in view of a window. It... It has to just be a guess, right?

Tinsley spends the rest of the day thinking about it, troubled, and the moment his shift is over, he's already heading for the Motel 6 he'd dropped Ricky off the day they met.

-—-

When Tinsley arrives, he heads for the office first. He speaks to the front desk agent, flashes his badge, and finds that Ricky is indeed still a guest. With a combination of the badge and a cheerful assurance that Ricky isn't in any trouble, it's easy for Tinsley to get the room number from the front desk agent. Once he gets the information he's looking for, he heads for the room on the first floor that's furthest from the office.

Tinsley raps on the door once he reaches it, and immediately hears movement within the room. He hears a man's voice alongside Ricky's slightly higher one as the two exchange words in rapidfire Spanish. Tinsley doesn't know everything they're saying, but he knows enough to pick out a few words — like _¡chale!_ , _la jura_ , and the word _narizón_ , something he hears used in reference to himself all too often around the precinct. Tinsley rubs at the bridge of his nose self-consciously and frowns down at his clothes. He changed before he left work. Is it still that obvious he's a cop?

"I'm just here to talk to Ricky," Tinsley says through the door, still frowning. "Ah, uh, _nadie — nadie problemas_?"

Tinsley hears someone snort at the broken Spanish, probably Ricky. "One minute," Ricky calls, and there's some more shuffling and muffled conversation, a few quiet thuds before Tinsley hears a window open and close. He sighs under his breath, staying put, though every inch of him is itching to chase after what he's sure must be a grown man sneaking out of Ricky's window.

"Hi," Ricky says breathlessly when he finally opens the door. He's flushed and a little sweaty, his hair and clothes rumpled in a way Tinsley instantly associates with sex. His expression catches Tinsley off guard, though. He'd expected Ricky to be upset or annoyed at being interrupted while clearly with a client, but instead Ricky is looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon.

"Uh. Hey, Ricky," Tinsley says uneasily, glancing around. "Can we talk?"

"Sure," Ricky says. "But not in here. You're bad for business, baby." He laughs and pats Tinsley's arm like they're old pals. "Gimme a second to change and grab my boots."

Ricky closes the door in his face, and Tinsley has no real choice other than to hover near the door and wait for him to step back out. When he does, Ricky nods towards where Tinsley's car is parked in the far corner of the lot — a car which he has absolutely no business recognizing, considering it's Tinsley's own shitty Ford Taurus and not his patrol car. Tinsley feels that same chill from earlier, eying Ricky warily as he leads the way across the lot against his better judgment. Ricky gets in on the passenger's side, glancing into the back seat at the bright blue box there. He smiles when he sees it, then turns that smile on Tinsley. It's a little shy and a lot hopeful, and whatever scolding Tinsley intended to give him dies on his tongue right then and there.

"How did you know," Tinsley begins, then pauses. Ricky arches an eyebrow. Tinsley clears his throat. "How did you know — everything? My favorite color, the book I've been reading, my collection... Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the gift, but—"

Ricky clicks his tongue impatiently, leaning closer to Tinsley over the center console. "Don't ask questions you already know the answer to, Cecil," he says, rolling his eyes. "You're smarter than that, and so am I."

Tinsley swallows. "So you've been..."

"Watching you, yes," Ricky says, and that sweet smile is back on his face. "I needed to know what you liked, obviously. You _said_ you liked it..." And now the hint of a pout, a hint of an upset expression. Tinsley tries to put a little space between them, but Ricky just leans in further over the center console. "You didn't lie, did you?" Ricky says, and it sounds more like an accusation than a question.

"No, I — I wouldn't lie to you," Tinsley says weakly, all too aware what Ricky's history must be with adults who lie to him. "It's lovely, but it's — it's inappropriate. There are boundaries, Ricky, you can't just... Follow me around like that."

"Yes, I can," Ricky replies, frowning. He looks genuinely confused. "I already did."

Tinsley sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You broke into my apartment," he accuses suddenly, fixing Ricky with a firm glare. "Didn't you?"

Ricky smiles and shrugs again, quite relaxed. "Does it matter?" he asks. At Tinsley's confused noise, he clarifies, "It's not like you can do anything about it, Cecil. C'mon, think about it."

Tinsley stares at him for a full minute, still confused.

And then he thinks he catches on.

"You wouldn't," he says weakly. "I haven't — I haven't done anything to you, Ricky! I just wanted to help you out. I haven't done anything..."

"Ah-ah-ah, but the NYPD doesn't know that!" Ricky says, singsong, and he reaches into his coat pocket for something. Tinsley tenses, hand twitching toward his gun on instinct, but Ricky's hand just resurfaces with a plastic-wrapped lollipop and a few glossy four-by-six photographs. Tinsley leans in a little to get a better look at the photos, then quickly recoils when he realizes what he's looking at.

"No," Tinsley says, shaking his head vigorously. "That's not me, I — you _know_ that's not me!"

Ricky smiles serenely as he unwraps the lollipop, tossing the photos down onto the dashboard. Ricky's in each of them, of course, in various vulgar poses; but the important thing is the tall, lean, pale man that's also featured in each of the photos.

In one, Ricky's lips are wrapped around a sizable cock; the man to whom the cock belongs has his long, pale fingers tangled in Ricky's hair, and Ricky is looking up at him with wide, teary eyes.

In another, that same big cock is buried to the hilt in Ricky's ass. The image is taken in a mirror with the flash on, so the man's face isn't visible, but he _does_ have brown hair that rather resembles Tinsley's, especially in such a blurry photo. The man's free arm holds Ricky to his chest, hand spread possessively over Ricky's heart, and Tinsley feels a sudden, fierce, horribly inappropriate spike of jealousy.

Tinsley stops looking after that, quickly gathering the pictures and flipping them face down on the center console. "That's not me!"

"Of course it's not. But like I said, who are they gonna believe when I say it _is?_ Me or you?" Ricky kicks his feet up on the dashboard. "You can keep those, by the way. I have plenty of copies. Of course, you won't _need_ the jerk-off material, if you're reasonable about this."

"What?" Tinsley asks weakly, still processing whatever the hell is going on here. "What does that even mean? What the hell do you want from me, Ricky?"

"Oh, I don't know," Ricky sighs, stretching languidly. He rolls his head to the side to smile at Tinsley again, pulling the lollipop out of his mouth and dragging his tongue obscenely over the cheap, bright red candy. Tinsley struggles not to follow the motion with his eyes. By the smirk on Ricky's face, he's not exactly successful. "I want everything. And then some. But... I'll start with your dick halfway down my throat, if it's all the same to you."

Tinsley stares. Wonders if he heard that correctly. Stares some more. Then,

"What."

Ricky pulls the lollipop out of his mouth, gesturing vaguely toward Tinsley's crotch. He is, Tinsley realizes with startling horror, already at about half-mast just from watching Ricky, from looking at those pictures. "I knew you'd never fuck me if you thought it was your own idea. So I thought I'd give you a little push," he says, speaking just a little slowly, like he thinks Tinsley is stupid. _Tinsley_ is starting to think Tinsley is stupid.

Ricky shifts up onto his knees suddenly, dropping the lollipop into Tinsley's open ashtray. He leans across the center console again, further this time, and reaches out to grab at Tinsley's cock rather unceremoniously. Tinsley flinches, a choked groan escaping him, and Ricky smiles again. The expression is disturbingly boyish, incongruent with the way Ricky is squeezing at his cock right now.

"I like you, Cecil. You understand me. Do you believe in fate? 'Cause..." Ricky's free hand disappears into his pocket again for a moment, and this time, he pulls out a shiny switchblade, which he flicks open with well-practiced ease. He raises the blade to Tinsley's neck and lets the edge of the cool metal just barely kiss the stubble on Tinsley's throat, all the while still rubbing at Tinsley's dick through his pants. To his own horror, Tinsley discovers that he's almost fully hard by now.

"I do," Ricky murmurs.

"I— I—" Tinsley tries, squirming uncomfortably. The knife presses a little harder against his skin, enough to sting and draw a few beads of blood, and Tinsley stops moving.

"I think we were meant to meet. Maybe we were even meant for each other," Ricky whispers, leaning in to drag his tongue over the cut he left on Tinsley's throat. Tinsley's breath comes out in something not unlike a whine, and Ricky puffs out an elated little laugh against his skin. His breath smells like the sickeningly sweet artificial cherry of the sucker currently stuck to the bottom of Tinsley's ashtray.

"Please," Tinsley says, voice breaking on the word. "Not — not outside, at least. Ricky, please." He could overpower Ricky easily, he thinks, but he can't bring himself to do it. How many adults have abandoned Ricky? How many have given up on him, thrown him aside? Tinsley is determined to be different. Maybe if he gives in just this once, he can convince Ricky to seek help.

Also, his dick is hard. But that has nothing to do with the decision, really. He's about seventy-five percent certain.

Ricky hums, seeming to consider this. Then he reaches across Tinsley to tug on the lever that scoots his seat back as far as it'll go.

"I wanna sit in your lap, but you're too big," Ricky complains, pouty, and sets the knife aside so he can work open Tinsley's belt. Tinsley eyes the blade for a moment, but doesn't try to grab for it. He's just... Going to let Ricky get this out of his system. Just the once. It's not for his own benefit, it's — it's for the greater good, right?

"Hey. I know your head is massive, so it's gotta be easy to get lost in there, but I want you to focus on me," Ricky says, turning that pout back on him once again. Tinsley blinks, then gives Ricky an uncertain smile.

"I'm sorry. I just — we shouldn't do this out in the open, Ricky."

Ricky rolls his eyes. "I've done it like this plenty of times. Nobody is gonna pay us any attention. Besides, I'm good." He winks. "This won't take long."

Before Tinsley can think about how, exactly, Ricky knows he's that good, Ricky is leaning in to kiss him. His lips are soft and slick with what Tinsley presumes is cherry lip balm; his tongue, when it pushes insistently into Tinsley's mouth, tastes like the lollipop he just had in his mouth, sticky and sweet and fake-fruity.

"I don't kiss just anyone," Ricky murmurs when he pulls back, sounding a little breathless. His lips are bright red, and before he can think about what he's doing, Tinsley finds himself reaching out to trace a fingertip over Ricky's bottom lip as if entranced. Ricky parts his lips and flicks his tongue out over the tip of Tinsley's finger, then gives it a gentle nip. "You're special," Ricky continues. "I like you. Do you like me, Cecil?"

"I—" Tinsley takes in the pleading, desperate expression on Ricky's face and caves, offering a weak smile. "Of course I do, Ricky."

Ricky pushes open Tinsley's belt and zipper, nudging at Tinsley's hips until he gets the hint and shoves down his pants and briefs enough to free his cock. He's still sort of in shock, he thinks, his thoughts all muddled with how quickly all of this is happening. Even as Tinsley watches Ricky bend over the center console, watches him wrap a hand around the base of his cock, hears him murmur something about how big Tinsley is — the sensation of that hot little mouth on the head of Tinsley's dick comes as something of a shock.

"Fuck, Ricky," Tinsley manages, dropping a hand onto the back of Ricky's neck. Ricky glances up at him through his lashes, and the sight is a thousand times hotter than anything Ricky captured on camera with Tinsley's look-alike.

Tinsley is starting to suspect he's in a bit of a predicament.

Ricky drools on Tinsley's cock like a pro, slicking the way for his hand to give it quick strokes while his mouth works the head expertly. Tinsley's head thuds against the headrest, free hand squeezing the steering wheel as he eyes scan the darkened parking lot with as much attention as he can muster — which is to say, not a whole lot. Christ, it's not even entirely dark out yet, it'd be all too easy for someone to look in here and realize _exactly_ what's going on —

Ricky seems to sense Tinsley's distraction, because he draws his attention back by very abruptly taking more than half of Tinsley's length down his throat.

"Shit!" Tinsley curses, and this time he slams his head back against the headrest hard enough to hurt. Ricky hums around his length, happy and oddly cute, his gag reflex apparently nowhere to be found. He lowers his head further, and Tinsley can't drag his eyes away from Ricky's face as those beautiful, near-black eyes fill up with tears. Ricky stays there for several seconds before pulling back with a gasp, mouth slick with spit and a little swollen. He gives Tinsley a smile that makes him look exactly as old as he is, and the dichotomy between that and his well-fucked mouth makes a little spurt of precum dribble from the head of Tinsley's cock, which Ricky is still expertly jerking as he catches his breath.

"Not gonna last long," Tinsley admits, voice strained. "'S been a while. And you're — _fuck_ , baby, you're good at that."

Ricky's eyes light up at the endearment, reminding Tinsley for just a moment of how far his apparent obsession with Tinsley goes. But then Ricky's taking Tinsley's dick deep down his throat again, and, well, the move is quite successful at pushing all the _dirty-bad-wrong_ guilty thoughts out of Tinsley's head. Ricky's making quiet frustrated noises around Tinsley as he squirms in his seat, trying to find a better angle. Ricky seems determined to take Tinsley's entire length in his throat, and though Tinsley's not entirely sure that's physically possible, he certainly isn't complaining about the effort.

"Gonna cum, beautiful," Tinsley warns the second time Ricky does this, when he nearly accomplishes his goal, throat muscles fluttering and tensing around Tinsley's cock tighter than anything he's ever fucked before. Ricky makes another choked-off happy noise when he hears the pet name Tinsley accidentally lets slip. It's the gentle vibrations from the moan that makes Tinsley cum down his throat just a few seconds after giving the warning, one hand slamming down on the steering wheel scant centimeters from the horn. Ricky swallows, and Tinsley breathes out a quiet, "Good boy," figuring the encouragement has got to be good for Ricky's psyche, or something.

"D'you know why Dahmer ate the flesh of his victims?" Ricky asks when he finally pulls back, hair wild and voice absolutely ruined. He reaches for one of Tinsley's hands, dragging it over into his own lap and rutting up against it. Still dazed from his orgasm, Tinsley allows it, curling his fingers around the hard length he feels through Ricky's jeans.

Tinsley thinks he must make a sort of curious noise, because Ricky continues breathlessly, "He didn't want them to leave him. By eating a part of them, they'd be with him forever. But, I dunno, I dunno why he couldn't just..." Ricky's breath catches as Tinsley suddenly sits up and leans over to clumsily undo his jeans, to get his hands on Ricky's smooth little uncut cock. It's only polite, after all. Ricky isn't wearing underwear, and he doesn't continue speaking until Tinsley has one big hand wrapped around his dick, giving him an admittedly rather half-assed, dry handjob. Whatever. He'll make up for it next time, or — or not, because there won't be a next time, of course.

Right, Ricky is talking.

"... Been easier to just swallow their cum, right? It's — _ah, fuck_ — it's certainly less work. It's still part of you." Ricky makes a low keening noise deep in his chest, one hand reaching out to squeeze at Tinsley's arm tightly. His cock is dripping with precum, and Tinsley pulls back the foreskin to gather it on his fingers and slick his grip, which makes Ricky moan rather loudly. Tinsley's never touched an uncut cock, he thinks to himself half-hysterically. Ricky's so _sensitive_. He wonders if it's because the boy is uncut or because he just is.

"You're a part of me now, Cecil," Ricky continues, breathing labored. "We'll be together forever, at least in this way. Please, please, I'm so close—" he whines, hand climbing up Tinsley's shoulder and twisting into his hair, and then he's yanking Tinsley into a rough kiss at an awkward angle while he cums all over Tinsley's hand and wrist. Ricky bites at Tinsley's lower lip, unforgiving and harsh, but Tinsley can't begrudge him the little bit of blood he gets out of the little cut it makes. Not after such a spectacular blowjob, not after giving such a subpar handjob in return.

When Ricky pulls back, he takes Tinsley's forearm into his hand and brings his hand up to his lips. Methodically, without breaking eye contact with Tinsley, Ricky licks every centimeter of Tinsley's skin clean of cum, and Tinsley feels his spent cock already trying to twitch back to life. When he's done, Ricky tucks himself back away into his jeans, and Tinsley hurries to do the same.

"So," Tinsley says after a few seconds, once the silence becomes too much to bear. "That... That just. Happened."

"Mm," Ricky hums vaguely in response, flipping down the visor so he can check his reflection in the mirror. He must catch sight of the box in the back seat again, because he perks up suddenly, turning to Tinsley with that same childish — boyish — no, no, _youthful_ expression he'd had earlier, when Tinsley had called him _baby_. Clearly trying not to sound too earnest or shy (and, of course, sounding incredibly earnest and shy in the process), Ricky asks, "So d'you like your present? Where are you gonna put it?" He leans against the center console, gazing expectantly at Tinsley. "You should put it by your desk at work."

Right. The fucking cat skull. Tinsley sighs and runs a hand through his hair, then tries futilely to smooth it down a little. "It's pretty. Where did you get it?" he asks in lieu of a real answer.

Ricky smiles nice and sweet again, looking at Tinsley through his lashes. "I made it," he replies simply, shrugging one shoulder.

Tinsley raises his eyebrows. "You painted it yourself?" he asks. Ricky nods. "Where did you get it?"

Ricky's smile only widens, but this time, it takes on a sharpened edge that very nearly makes Tinsley shudder uneasily.

"I made it," Ricky repeats, saccharine.

Tinsley stares at him for three, four, five seconds in confusion. Then the realization hits, and his expression of confusion shifts into something of abject horror.

Ricky's expression doesn't change. He reaches into his pocket again for another sucker. "I want pizza," he says around his mouthful, kicking his feet up on the dash again. "That place you like down the block from your apartment looks pretty good."

Tinsley opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Alright," Tinsley says, and starts his car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You're not afraid of me, right?"
> 
> "No, Ricky," Cecil lies, and Ricky smiles. He'll let the lie slide, just this once. It's a good thing, he thinks. Cecil cares about him enough to lie about his fear, but he's also certainly terrified enough not to leave him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my lovely beta!
> 
> I have a vague plot outline for this; it will probably be about 4-5 chapters, but I guess we'll see.
> 
> Also, watch the 2013 movie Stoker. You won't regret it.

Officer Cecil Tinsley is, by all accounts, an upstanding member of the community.

He's one of the only officers on the force with fewer than three disciplinary infractions or citizen complaints against him. He works his beat, he keeps his head down, he doesn't take bribes, and he rarely discharges his weapon. He goes out to the bar every Friday, usually has a date every Saturday, and rarely sees any of his dates more than once. Cecil isn't close to many people; he has a few coworkers that accompany him for drinks on Fridays, he helps his neighbors with their groceries or the trash on occasion, but overall he's a relatively private person. He doesn't seem particularly lonely or unhappy, just... Solitary.

The Saturday evening following their little parking lot rendezvous, Ricky invites himself over to Cecil's when he's out running errands. He brings along a few bags of groceries, and he waits until he knows Cecil's neighbor is out walking her dog before making quick work of the lock with the pick set he lifted from a locksmith post-blowjob a few months ago. Ricky changes into something more comfortable — a pair of Cecil's boxers, the light yellow dress shirt on top of the dirty laundry hamper, and a soft pink apron with a lacy, heart-shaped pocket on the front. Then Ricky starts to snoop through Cecil's cupboards for the dishes and utensils he needs in order to make dinner. He hasn't cooked in a while, but enchiladas are hard to fuck up, and he figures Cecil will just have to deal with salsa from a jar.

Whatever, Ricky's fourteen. He's not anybody's fucking tía. It's the thought that counts.

Ricky turns on Cecil's turntable and skims through his record collection for something to play, rolling his eyes at all the old-fashioned music Cecil seems to prefer. He selects one of the only records he recognizes, a copy of _The Velvet Underground & Nico_, and hums along to Sunday Morning as he starts to cook the beef for the enchiladas.

By the time Cecil gets home, Ricky has finished dinner, cracked the safe in Cecil's bedroom, and started to set the table, in that order. Cecil has his gun drawn when he opens the door, and he looks wary but not particularly surprised when he sees Ricky standing at the kitchen table, smiling sweetly.

"Welcome home," Ricky says as warmly as he can manage. His gaze flickers to the gun in Cecil's hand, and he rolls his eyes. Casual as you please, he picks up the matching one he found in the safe under Cecil's bed, tucking it into the heart-shaped pocket on the front of his apron. "Please put that thing away, _querido_. Why don't you wash up while I finish setting the table?" It's phrased like a question, but judging by the look on Cecil's face, he hears the underlying order in Ricky's tone of voice. _He's learning!_ Ricky thinks. Cecil seems to consider his options for a moment, then sighs and sets the gun next to his turntable, bending to take off his shoes before padding into the kitchen.

"I wasn't... Expecting you," Cecil remarks carefully as he rolls up his sleeves and starts to wash his hands. Ricky finishes setting the table, lighting a candle in the center of it as the finishing touch, and then turns to Cecil with his hands on his hips.

"Well, it _is_ your date night, isn't it? And you didn't exactly leave me a phone number to contact you at," Ricky points out, as if he hasn't had Cecil's cell number memorized since day one. He heads into the living room for a moment, stashing Cecil's gun on the very top of his book shelf and swapping out the Velvet Underground record for a Lana Del Rey one. When he returns, Cecil has loosened his tie and is staring uncertainly at the glass dish on the stove.

"It smells great," Cecil concedes after a beat, and Ricky lights up, wrapping his arms around Cecil's middle from behind and kissing his shoulder. He doesn't miss the way Cecil tenses, but it probably has something to do with the gun that's still in the front pocket of Ricky's apron.

"Thank you!" Ricky gushes. "It's one of the only things I know how to cook — but, I mean, I can always learn how to cook more things. I'll learn how to cook all of your favorite things." The assurance at the end is tacked on hastily, as Ricky is eager to prove that he'll make a good wife for Cecil one day.

"I — I appreciate it, Ricky. But, I mean..." The smile immediately drops off of Ricky's face at the 'but'. He stares at Cecil with a completely blank expression, arms crossed over his chest. "You can't just do this whenever you feel like it. We need to talk about this. If you get caught, I—"

"I think you should sit down," Ricky says, and all the previous affection and excitement is gone from his voice and expression. He takes the gun from his apron pocket. Cecil's eyes are drawn to it immediately, wide with something that's very nearly fear, and Ricky lets himself thrill in the adrenaline rush for a moment before gesturing to one of the two places he set at the table. "Now," Ricky adds impatiently, when Cecil makes no move to sit.

Wordlessly, Cecil complies.

"Good boy," Ricky says, and finally smiles again, bright and cheerful. He opens Cecil's junk drawer and retrieves a roll of duct tape, which Cecil glances to questioningly — his gaze is mostly still trained on the gun — but doesn't actually ask about yet. "I just wanna make sure you're _present_ while we're together, you know? You got so distracted last time, you almost ruined the fun."

"Okay. You don't have to — to tie me up, though." Cecil swallows, forcing his gaze away from the gun for a moment to meet Ricky's eyes. "You have my full attention, Ricky."

"For now," Ricky agrees, tucking the gun back into his pocket. "But this will help." He kneels and starts to duct tape either of Cecil's ankles to the legs of the chair. He gives Cecil a wink when he glances up, kissing the inside of his knee as a reward for his compliance before standing up. Ricky straddles Cecil's lap, now, wriggling a little to get more comfortable.

"Don't mind me," Ricky giggles, taking one of Cecil's wrists in his hand and crossing it over his chest. Leaving the left arm free, he sets about wrapping the tape several times around Cecil's left arm, chest, and the back of the chair; he presses himself close each time he brings the roll of tape around behind him.

The smell of him is so much stronger from the source than it is when Ricky wraps himself up in Cecil's sheets while he's at work. He feels his cock start to stiffen.

"Why are you wearing my clothes?" Cecil manages to ask once Ricky is satisfied with his taping job. He's still settled in Cecil's lap, hands resting against his chest.

Ricky considers the question for a moment, then shrugs. "Thought it'd be cute. You like it, don't you?"

Cecil sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. He looks defeated when he meets Ricky's gaze again. "Yeah. You're always cute, though."

Ricky blushes and giggles, a tiny glimpse at the version of himself he could be if he weren't so absolutely fucked in the head, and slides out of Cecil's lap. He goes over to Cecil's liquor shelf to peruse its contents, finally deciding on the half-empty bottle of Four Roses bourbon he finds there. "I like tequila better," Ricky informs him with a little moue of distaste, but he still pours each of them a few fingers of bourbon. He refills Cecil's glass when he drains it immediately, rolling his eyes rather fondly.

Finally, Ricky serves them each enchiladas, leaving the chips and salsa in the middle of the table where they can both reach. "Did you know we're both left-handed?" Ricky asks conversationally, cutting into an enchilada quite primly with the side of his fork. He watches Cecil take his first bite with rapt attention, though he tries his best to appear careless. Cecil chews, swallows, then clears his throat. He glances up to meet Ricky's eyes, and whatever he sees in Ricky's expression makes his whole demeanor soften a little.

"This is really great, Ricky. Thank you," Cecil says, and Ricky beams, cheeks going rosy.

"Of course, Daddy! I like doing things for you," Ricky says. He watches the way Cecil's throat moves when he swallows — he certainly seems to enjoy the _Daddy_ , even if he has yet to outright say so — and allows himself, for a brief moment, to imagine slitting the pale column of it. To imagine the bright slash of red Ricky's knife would leave in its wake.

Cecil is looking at him expectantly. He must have asked Ricky a question.

Ricky tears his eyes away from Cecil's throat to meet his eyes, shifting in his seat. The fantasy, though lasting only a handful of seconds, already has him harder than he's been all night.

"Sorry, I — I was thinking. What was that?" Ricky asks, taking a bite of his food. Cecil's expression briefly turns curious, but he must decide he probably doesn't want to know, because he repeats his original question instead of inquiring as to what Ricky had been so lost in thought about.

"I was just wondering where you learned how to cook like this," Cecil says.

Ricky hums, sipping at his bourbon and watching Cecil do the same. It makes him feel impossibly grown-up, or perhaps more like a child trying to appear grown-up. "Mama wasn't always a useless whore," he says, quite casually, and shrugs one shoulder. "And I taught myself some. Got sick of living on ramen and the occasional takeout from one of my daddies."

A flash of discomfort crosses Cecil's face, and Ricky briefly worries that he said something wrong. But then Cecil says, haltingly, "What would you say if I offered you an... An out? Out of that lifestyle?" and Ricky's eyes light up with unbridled hope. He straightens in his seat, trying not to writhe in his seat like an overexcited puppy.

"I would be good for you," Ricky says, a little breathless. "You don't — you never have to pay me for anything, I'll do whatever you want. Anything."

Cecil smiles a little. "I'll give you enough every month to keep you comfortable. You won't owe me anything in return — it's something I want to do, okay?"

Oh no. Ricky can feel his eyes welling up with tears.

Cecil continues, "I just don't feel comfortable with you living such a dangerous lifestyle. You deserve better than that, Ricky."

The dam breaks. Ricky's breath hitches on a tiny sob. He stands abruptly, knocking over his chair, and goes to grab a kitchen knife from the counter. Cecil startles, watching him warily as he approaches with the knife in hand — but all Ricky does is slash at the tape binding him to the chair. He drops the knife once Cecil is free, straddling Cecil's lap again and drawing him into a kiss that's messy and rough and salty with tears.

"Ricky, baby," Cecil says gently against his mouth, nudging Ricky back a little and wiping at the tears streaking his cheeks. "Don't cry — don't cry, baby. You're okay. I got you, alright?"

"I just..." Ricky sniffs, pressing his face against Cecil's shoulder and clutching at the front of his shirt. Cecil rubs his back with one hand and cards his fingers through Ricky's hair with the other. "You mean it? You don't think I'm bad?"

Cecil turns his head to kiss Ricky's hair. Ricky wonders if he notices that he used Cecil's shampoo. Probably, he thinks with a fierce stab of pride. Cecil is wasted as a beat cop; Ricky just _knows_ he'd do much better as a detective.

"Of course," Cecil says quietly, still stroking Ricky's hair. "You're not _bad,_ Ricky. You've just had it rough. I want — I want to help you. You deserve a good life. The best life I can give you, at least."

Ricky sniffles again, pressing against Cecil more firmly despite the uncomfortable position. He wishes he could get closer. Not for the first time, Ricky wishes he could carve Cecil in two and burrow deep inside him, cover his skin in Cecil's hot blood like the only clothing he'd ever need again.

He won't.

Not for a while, at least.

"I was afraid that... That I was too much," Ricky admits slowly, tracing little shapes absently against the fabric of Cecil's shirt. "I know I'm broken. There's something wrong with me. The — this, all of this, it's not normal, and I was afraid I scared you." He pulls back a little and meets Tinsley's eyes. "You're not afraid of me, right?"

"No, Ricky," Cecil lies, and Ricky smiles. He'll let the lie slide, just this once. It's a good thing, he thinks. Cecil cares about him enough to lie about his fear, but he's also certainly terrified enough not to leave him.

Ricky leans in to kiss Cecil again. His cheeks are still damp with tears, but the kiss is far more tender this time, loving. Ricky curls his fingers around Cecil's jaw, coaxes his lips apart nice and slow with his tongue, licks into his mouth.

Then his stomach rumbles.

Ricky pulls back with a sheepish little giggle, face warm with embarrassment. "After dinner," he promises, kissing Cecil on the bridge of his beak of a nose, and then he's clambering back out of Cecil's lap again.

—

Cecil insists on helping Ricky with the dishes after dinner, and he washes while Ricky dries. Cecil has swapped out the Lana Del Rey record for something much older; Ricky recognizes the voice on the record, but he couldn't name the singer if pressed.

"Will you dance with me?" Ricky asks as he dries the last plate, looking over and up at Cecil hopefully. "I don't really know how to dance, though. You'll have to teach me."

Cecil smiles, leaning in to kiss Ricky on the forehead. Ricky's cheeks warm, and he bites back a shy grin. "Of course," he replies, drying his hands on the kitchen towel. Ricky dries his hands, too, then Cecil takes one of them in his own and leads the way into the living room.

Cecil pulls Ricky close and entwines their fingers; his other hand settles on Ricky's lower back. "Hand on my shoulder," Cecil instructs, and Ricky complies; the height difference is a lot more apparent like this, and Ricky both loves and hates the way he has to look up and up and _up_ just to meet Cecil's eyes. "I'm gonna teach you how to lead," Cecil continues. "So — box step. Easiest move in the book. I'm gonna move my right foot backwards, and you move your left foot forward. Okay?"

Ricky nods, and from there they spend a good half hour practicing. Cecil forgets he's not leading occasionally, accidentally trods on Ricky's toes; Ricky steps on him a good deal more than that, and by the time they manage to waltz in smooth circles around the living room, they're both flushed and laughing together at their own clumsiness.

They pause when the record ends — Sinatra, Ricky learns as Cecil goes over to change the record again — and drink water (at Cecil's insistence) then more bourbon. They settle on the couch together, talking about anything and everything in quiet tones. Cecil tells him about his little taxidermy collection, and Ricky tells Cecil about the more G-rated things he gets up to during the day. He likes to explore abandoned buildings, he says; likes to read sometimes, too, things like Siken and Brite and King. They find they have more in common than even Ricky with all his studying of Cecil was aware of, much to Ricky's delight.

The songs all fade together for Ricky, but when a new one starts a while later, Cecil instantly perks up. He grins at Ricky as he gets to his feet, pink-cheeked and tipsy, and holds a hand out to Ricky. Ricky lets Cecil pull him to his feet and guide him back into a dancing stance. "I love this song," Cecil confesses, starting the box step once again. Ricky was expecting to be worse at it, given the way they've both had a glass or two of bourbon by now, but he's delighted to find that he falls into the rhythm pretty easily.

"What is it?" Ricky asks curiously, tipping his head back to look up at Cecil.

"Mm. Summer Wine. Nancy Sinatra and Lee Hazlewood. I'm gonna spin you." That's all the warning Ricky gets before Cecil does just that, spinning Ricky out and then back in, pulling him even closer afterward than they'd been before. Ricky giggles and laces their fingers together again, biting his lower lip as he grins up at Cecil.

"I've heard of Nancy Sinatra," Ricky murmurs, just a little breathless. _Strawberries, cherries, and an angel's kiss in spring,_ Nancy croons as they sway, and Ricky supposes he can see the appeal of music like this, after all. There's certainly something more sensual and intimate than there is in any trashy pop hit he's ever danced to in the club. Or maybe, Ricky thinks as he gazes up at Cecil again, it's just the present company.

The song trails off and leads into another. Ricky has to step back a little to yank Cecil down into a kiss, but it's worth it. He stands on his toes, and Cecil ducks down obligingly. There's a building tension in the kiss, embers that fan up into a flame, and in less than a minute Ricky is pushing Cecil back toward the couch. Cecil stumbles a little, trips onto the couch more than actively sitting on it, but Ricky pays no mind. He climbs into Cecil's lap for the third time that night, pulling him into another heated kiss and rocking down against him with a sort of single-minded determination. Cecil muffles a moan into the kiss, hands sliding up Ricky's thighs and under the hem of his stolen shirt.

"Used your shower earlier," Ricky pants against Cecil's jaw, trailing sloppy kisses along his neck as he starts to undo the other's buttons. "Want you to fuck me raw, Daddy. Please, please, please—"

"Yeah, alright," Cecil agrees readily, surprising Ricky a little.

"I'm clean. Got tested a few days ago," Ricky promises anyway, because he'd figured Cecil would make more of a fuss about it than this.

Cecil nods, pressing a gentle kiss below Ricky's ear. Ricky tips his head back, eyes fluttering shut, as Cecil starts to mark his throat. He hasn't let someone do that since he was twelve, he thinks distantly, but he's all too glad to let Cecil leave whatever marks he damn well pleases.

"Hang on," Ricky says after Cecil leaves three neat bruises in a row down the side of his neck. "Strip." He gets up, but only to ditch his boxers and retrieve something from his backpack, which lays abandoned on the floor near the front door. By the time he gets back to the couch, Ricky finds Cecil complying with his command, and it makes him smile. Once Cecil is nude, Ricky settles right back into his lap, pressing a bottle of lube into one of Cecil's hands as he leans in to kiss him again.

Ricky hears the click of the cap, and a few moments later, he feels the gentle press of Cecil's slim, wet fingers teasing at his hole. He makes a quiet noise against Cecil's mouth, rocking back a little to chase the feeling, but Cecil just continues to tease.

 _"Daddy,"_ Ricky pouts, and Cecil laughs affectionately.

"Ask nice, baby," Cecil murmurs, and Ricky holds out for approximately two seconds before giving in.

"Please open me up," Ricky pleads obediently, tugging at Cecil's earlobe with his teeth. The thought that he could easily rip through it with his teeth comes as naturally as breathing, but Ricky ignores the impulse. He's gotten good at that over the years. "Fuck me with your fingers, c'mon, wanna feel you — need your dick in me, Daddy." He's always been good at dirty talk, and Cecil seems to appreciate it, given the way he groans and slips two fingers into Ricky's already-stretched entrance with little resistance.

"You're so pretty, baby," Cecil murmurs, leaning back so he can look at Ricky's face. Ricky is a vain little creature, and he can only imagine the picture he must make. He probably looks utterly debauched, hair a mess, neck covered in love bites that Cecil left there himself. He's wearing nothing but the oversized, half-unbuttoned dress shirt he stole from Cecil.

"Yeah?" Ricky asks anyway, trying to sound shy.

"Prettiest thing I've ever seen," Cecil replies, curling his fingers inside Ricky in a way that makes him gasp and rock back against him for more. "Angelic, even. But I don't think angels have got quite the mouth on them that you have."

Ricky giggles, pulls Cecil into another short-lived kiss. "You talkin' about how good I am at sucking dick, or how good I am at dirty talk?" he teases.

"Yes," Cecil replies, and Ricky laughs again as Cecil guides him into another kiss. A third finger joins the first two just as Ricky is starting to get impatient, and he feels _full_ , but it's still not quite enough.

Ricky breaks the kiss with a shiver and a breathless, "Please, Daddy." Cecil looks up at him with lust-darkened eyes, pupils blown wide, and nods fervently.

"Yeah, I — okay. You wanna ride me, pretty baby?" Cecil asks, withdrawing his fingers. Ricky whimpers at the loss, lower lip jutting out in a pout on instinct. Cecil laughs and kisses it away. Instead of answering, Ricky deepens the kiss as he rises up onto his knees. He holds onto Cecil's shoulder with one hand for balance; the other one reaches behind him to guide Cecil's cock into his tight little hole.

"Fuck," Cecil hisses reverently, breaking the kiss to tip his head back against the couch. Ricky just whines, fingernails digging into Cecil's shoulders. He might draw blood if he presses hard enough, he thinks deliriously. He hopes he does.

"You're so big, Daddy," Ricky says, voice high and breathy as he sinks down slowly. He's taken bigger, probably, but nobody comes immediately to mind. It hurts, it always does with dicks this big; but Ricky has long since learned to revel in the feeling. "Gonna feel you for days."

"Yeah? Not too big, though, huh?" Cecil smiles like he's proud, and Ricky gets butterflies in his stomach. "You have plenty of practice. But all that practice was just for me, wasn't it? So you'd be good at this for me. So, _so_ good."

Ricky's breath catches in his throat, and he forces himself all the way down into Cecil's lap with a half-pained, half-pleased cry. His nails finally break Cecil's skin; Cecil doesn't seem to mind.

"All for you," Ricky pants. "All yours. Never gonna let anyone else touch me ever again, Daddy, I promise, I promise—"

"Yeah?" Cecil kisses along the side of Ricky's face, along his sweaty hairline and nuzzling into his wild, messy curls. "I know you won't, baby. You've been so good for me already. Always such a good boy, Ricky."

Ricky raises halfway up and sinks back down again, eliciting a choked moan from Cecil. He starts a steady pace, and it's too much too fast — but he can do it, and he _does_ , because it's for Cecil.

"Careful, baby. Don't hurt yourself," Cecil murmurs, rubbing slow circles into Ricky's skin just above his thigh. Ricky hums, clenching a little tighter around Cecil as he rolls his hips down.

"I don't — I don't care if it hurts," Ricky stutters out, tangling the fingers of one hand into Cecil's hair. "I like it. You can hurt me however you want, Daddy, I'll love it 'cause it's you."

"I don't wanna hurt you," Cecil says, and one of those big hands wraps around Ricky's cock as he speaks. Ricky sighs and alternates between rocking down against Cecil's cock and up into his hand. "Just wanna make you feel good. One of these days I'll lay you down and take the whole day just... Just treating you like royalty."

Ricky feels tears stinging at the backs of his eyes again. "You really think I deserve it?" he asks. He adjusts his position in Cecil's lap, and the next time he sinks down, a loud moan punches out of him. The tears spill over as Ricky stops caring whether Cecil sees them or not. He squeezes his eyes shut and rides Cecil faster, harder.

"Of course, sweetheart, of course you do. You deserve the world," Cecil assures him, cupping his face in his hand like something precious. He leans in and kisses Ricky's tears away, and Ricky holds onto him tighter, and it's less than a minute later that Ricky cums, streaking Cecil's hand and belly with white.

Ricky doesn't ease up, though, not even with how oversensitive he is within seconds. The tears continue to stream down his cheeks, and he ignores whatever it is Cecil is saying to him in favor of riding him hard 'til he cums, too, big cock buried to the hilt in Ricky's ass. Ricky slows to a stop and reopens his eyes, giving Cecil an easy, almost sleepy grin.

"Jesus," Cecil says with a shaky laugh, kissing Ricky's forehead. "Where did you come from, huh?"

"Hell, probably," Ricky replies sleepily, and Cecil laughs. Ricky leans in and drags his tongue over the few points on Cecil's shoulder where he'd broken the skin. They aren't bleeding anymore, far too shallow for that, but Ricky enjoys the coppery taste on his tongue all the same. "Sorry, Daddy," he says, frowning.

"I don't mind," Cecil shrugs. "C'mon, let's get cleaned up, baby boy."

Ricky eases off of Cecil's soft cock with a little whine, getting up on shaky legs. When Cecil stands, too, Ricky juts out his lower lip in a pout and clings to Cecil's chest. "Carry me," he orders, and laughs in surprise and delight when Cecil actually complies, picking him up bridal-style to carry him to the bathroom.

Half an hour and a nice, hot bath later, Cecil carries Ricky once more — this time into his bedroom, where he sets Ricky on top of the covers with a care that makes Ricky's heart swell. Ricky towels his hair as dry as he can get it before climbing under the blankets, not bothering to dress himself first. Cecil follows suit, pulling Ricky close and tangling their legs together under the blankets. Ricky has never been much one for cuddling, but like this, well... Maybe now he gets the appeal.

Ricky falls asleep to the sound of Cecil's heart beating under his ear and the taste of his blood still clinging to his tongue.


End file.
